Sangreal
by Artanis
Summary: Altair has found his Holy Grail, and it's not what he expected.
1. It's a Hard Enough Life

**Author's Note:**_ Yes, so I finally caved against my better judgement and decided to write an AC fic. I cant guarantee I'll update it often, but I'm blocked everywhere else and I do so love my assassin men. WARNING: I obviously do not own Assassins Creed or Altair. Astarte Sangreal, however, is my character and I'd like you to ask for my permission if you wish to write about her yourselves. ANOTHER WARNING: You may notice as your reading that there are a veritable ton of references to Christendom. This is because it is appropriate for the time period. Anything negative about this outlook that Astarte may imply IS NOT the author's personal view or an attack on any religion, simply the individual feelings expressed by a character used to further the plot. In any case, please R&R if you'd like me to continue this!_

Astarte Sangreal rolled her shoulders back and stretched her neck as she emerged from the dank hovel, sighing into the rag that covered her nose and mouth. Exhalation was the best part of breathing in a city like Acre, where the smell of plague victims and unwashed bodies was so thick it practically formed a poisonous smog. Horrid times had brought her to this Christian outpost of the holy land, and even the fact that she was helping save what lives she could did not improve her mood. Especially not when she knew the lives she saved were sneaking about and spreading vicious lies behind her back, lies that could very easily earn her an honoured place at the next public execution.

Taking shallow breaths to try and avoid the stink of the middle district, she turned onto a narrow side-street, walking briskly and gripping the handle of her athame with white knuckles. It didn't do to linger long in dark alleys, especially not with the sheer number of soldiers patrolling the place. Ha, in any normal and godly world, soldiers were there to make the streets safe. Not here, not in Acre. It wasn't safe for a young woman of eighteen to wander the streets alone and armed with only a dull herb knife and her own wits for protection.

Something white and red flashed out of the corner of her eye and Astarte's gaze snapped upward and she fairly flew to put her back against the nearest wall, the brilliant sunlight blinding her as she attempted to catch a glimpse of her possible attacker. Blinking in the harsh glare, she was forced to cast her gaze downward.

"Witch?" Astarte jumped as a piece of roofing crumbled and a peasant boy emerged from behind a dilapidated stone building. Recovering her breath and sense, she reacted with exasperated annoyance:

"Herbalist. Doctor. Healer. _Not _a witch, do you understand? Do you know how quickly they'd have me tied to a stake and who knows what else if they heard you call me 'witch'? Who'd help you then, you uneducated, squalid fool?" She sheathed the herb knife and decided she must have been jumping at shadows, or at the very utmost she'd leapt about in terror because of a seagull. Something red and white and feathered all over…she snorted and pulled her hood up further over her head, feeling nonetheless distinctly unsettled.

"I don't know what you mean…miss?" The boy hesitated, unsure of what to call her despite the options she'd provided for him. Sighing, she decided it didn't matter as long as the taboo witch did not crop up again.

"What do you need?" Astarte let the subject drop as she followed the lanky preteen through a winding array of back allies and crowded streets. Astarte kept her eyes focused on the ground like the rest of the poorer population, despite the effort it took to do so. It was much safer then running the risk of a guard or knight taking too close a look at her. Chivalry and courtly love was for the noble ladies, or those who could at least be recognized as such and had not fled their duchy in Northern England. Peasant women could be taken by force if a man of higher rank so wished. She'd like to keep her maidenhood for a bit longer if she could help it.

"My sister was scratched this morning by the blade of a man saving her from the guards. I just remembered what you said about keeping it clean but it's very deep…I'm worried." The boy wrung his hands as he lead her into a blacksmiths and up the stairs at the back of the shop. This lead to yet another hovel building filled with rats and grime. Astarte winced and tightened the cloth around her face as they took a flight of stairs up to the second floor. A bedraggled young woman sat on a bed in the corner, gazing out the window, a three inch long slice tracing a clean red line down her arm. As Astarte entered, she put a hand on the boys shoulder.

"Did you boil water?"

"Yes! Where do you want it?" Astarte rolled her eyes at the stupid question but gave explicit instructions nonetheless. The girl in the corner watched her with a mildly interested expression as she dug into her cloth bag and removed some clean strips of linen and a few packets of herbs. Astarte, unsettled by the gaze of a woman so close to her in age, reached for the girls arm.

"What's your name?" Astarte asked as she gripped the her slender wrist and surveyed the wound.

"Magdalyn." She replied, staring out the window as though searching for something. Just to be safe, Astarte stood up and gently palpated the girls skull.

"Did you hit your head?"

"No, just the arm…" Magdalyn watched Astarte work, a willing and docile patient. "He saved me, you know."

"Who?" _God._ Astarte knew this would undoubtedly be the answer. Obvious by the girls name and by the air of serenity that pervaded her mentality.

"The man in white, he runs on rooftops. I've seen him, you know, he flies like a bird." Magdalyn looked suddenly fervent, gazing out the window with a renewed intensity. Astarte froze for a millisecond in the act of tying the girls bandage, only to lean over and add a few ingredients to the girls restorative tea.

"You don't believe me?"

"Er…tell me more about him, Magdalyn." Astarte knew from past experience that angering a patient with a concussion did much more harm then good.

"He's a bird with only one talon, the one that sliced me when he leapt from the sky-" Flying priest from the sky carrying blades?

"Well, that looks about finished. I've got to be going. Keep it clean and dry and drink the tea." Astarte stood up and rushed down the wooden steps, hurrying out the door and back into the smithy.

"You. I need payment for my services…it's five shillings at least and not a penny less. Otherwise I die of starvation and your all left to your own devices so pay me." At first, she'd been hesitant about demanding money. But that was before she'd realized what perpetual hunger felt like.

"I'll give you two shillings, that's all I can afford." A burly smith stepped forward, looking menacing as he thrust the money at her. Astarte sighed in frustration and put her hands on her hips.

"_No_. The price is the price and its nonnegotiable. Besides, I just saw you pocket three times that much and your prices per horse shod are on the side of this building. Six shillings a horse. So give me the money, or shall I go consult those knights and ask _them _to bargain with you?" She held out her hand insistently only to have the man spit into her palm and call her something exceedingly rude in French.

"Go away, witch. I'm not paying you a farthing."

Forced to admit defeat, Astarte trudged off, dejected and infuriated at the same time. She pulled the rag off from around her mouth and tied it around her neck, wincing at the smell but resolved to deal with it. She shoved her hands deep in the pocket of her loose fitting tunic, scuffing her almost completely worn boots against the aged stone. The outfit she wore was an androgynous one, the wool cloak was itchier and more unpleasant then she would ever get used to. But at least it stayed warm all the time, even when wet. Warmth was important to her, despite the sweltering weather she now mucked through. The nights were frigid and exhausting, often she could not fall asleep for fear of being caught by surprise.

Tonight would be no different from the other interminably long nights spent in Acre, her own personal purgatory.


	2. New Friends, Old Friends, Dead Friends

_**Author's note:**__ Thanks for the awesome reviews! And if you haven't reviewed yet, shame on you! Lol, just kidding, but really, don't make me beg…. ;D_

"Excuse me, my child? It is time for morning mass…" A monk was nudging her awake from her fitful rest. Astarte pushed herself up into a sitting position and the monk gasped as the scarf she normally wrapped around her head fell away. A cascade of blonde fell about her face and obscured her vision and she heard the priest gasp in shock. To tired to really care, she pushed it back from her face and blearily watched him cross himself.

"Oh…forgive me, father. I'll just be leaving then, shall I?" She knew it was wrong of her to claim asylum under the roof of the church.

"Well, I didn't mean to-" But Astarte was already out the doors, pushing her way through the crowds of obedient sheep trying to reach the churches cavernous interior. She felt sore from sleeping on the pews all night and there was a terrible crick in her neck. Deftly, she rewrapped her hair and slid a white cowl over her head before it could draw any unwanted attention. The colour itself was conspicuous: no peasant had hair like that. Keeping hair that long was a sign of royalty, they were clean enough they could afford it. Anyone else was asking for lice…

_There isn't enough pennyroyal in the world to get rid of all the lice in Acre. _Astarte felt a violent retching reflex that seemed to shoot up from her toes. That was by far the most prolifically disgusting condition she'd come across and on principal preferred not to deal with scalps. But even the sudden feeling of revulsion did nothing to allay the persistent hunger that gnawed at her stomach.

Without money and without food, she wandered around the city aimlessly. Chewing a spring of anise and wincing at the bitter flavour, she watched the merchants hawking their wares. They were skilled in the art of tricking people into buying at the highest price and against their better judgment. If only healing was something she could get them to pay for so easily. Astarte knew that if she was a man, it would be easier for her to get money doing what she did.

But even then, she'd been raised as the daughter of a prominent English noble who hadn't felt that business was a useful study for his very marriageable adolescent. Astarte made a face: she'd dodged every attempt to send her off to marry some old baron or immature young son of a lord, much to her father's agitation. _What on earth am I supposed to do with you, then? You are a huge strain on my house and no man wants a bothersome wife! What good are you?!_ Those had been the words that drove her to Acre, a stowaway in a supply ship. It wasn't until she'd actually reached the city that she realized what a foolish, risky thing she'd done: had they caught her, she would have been worse than dead.

"ARRETES! ASSASSINE! Ah ha!" Astarte rounded a corner to see a man in red and white cornered by the guards, feinting one way and then the other in an attempt to shake them. She watched, fascinated and horrified as the man was forced to leap back as a steel blade clanged off the stone inches from his hooded head.

The assassin moved with such an easy grace, practically inhuman as he dodged another swipe with ease. He wore no armor that could impede his movement and, by comparison, the guards were clumsy, clanking things. One of the soldiers, frustrated by the game of cat and mouse, lunged at his opponent with that final charge Astarte had seen men employ in the practice ring as the finishing blow. Her heart jumped in her chest and fear for not the corrupt knight but for his quarry filled her throat. There was a deadly scraping squeal of metal that grated on her ear drums and some instinct made her shut her eyes against the wet tearing sound that followed. Something warm splattered across her cheek and she looked up to see the assassin's boot disappearing over the roof top, the soldier who had attacked gushing blood from the throat. The four others stood around dumbly, staring at their fallen comrade in shock.

"PUT PRESSURE ON IT!!" The scream rose shrilly from her throat, startling the four men as she shoved them aside, her knees splashing in a quickly spreading puddle of crimson. She tore off the cowl and scrunched it up in a ball, pressing it to the wound in his neck that was spurting with every frantic thump of the mans faltering heart. Desperate, she tore off the soldiers helmet and looked into his surprised expression. He coughed and blood bubbled out between his lips as he exhaled one last time before his brown eyes fixed themselves staring into the sky. _It was too quick…_she pulled away her blood soaked cowl and looked at the dark slice in the side of the mans neck, shaking her head. _And a perfectly executed cut, he couldn't have struck a more fatal blow._

"Where is he!? I'm here! Tell me you've caught him…oh, _not again_!" A voice snapped curtly, a figure dressed in full templar regalia rounding the corner. Astarte stood up, covered in blood and shaking as she stared into the helmeted knights eye-slits.

"You." A gauntleted hand pointed at her decisively. "Is he dead?"

"Er…yes." Astarte muttered, surprised to hear a familiar voice coming from the helmet. But it couldn't be…

"Maria?" She blurted, recognizing for the first time that no man would have a build so slight and an outfit so stylishly cut. The helmeted head jerked up and a gloved hand pushed up the visor.

"Mary mother of God! Is that you, Sangreal?" Maria leapt over the soldiers prone body and pulled her friend into a fierce embrace.

"What in Christendom are you doing down here?! And what are you dressed at?" Astarte was so happy to see someone she knew all she could do was beam unashamedly into Maria's astonished expression. The other woman laughed and tore off Astarte's ragged head scarf, using it to scrub away some of the blood on her face. "God, you look a sight. Let's get you inside and dressed, shall we?"

"Clean this up." Maria turned to the soldiers with a business-like expression and pointed to the body. She whirled on the dead guards companions, the set of her mouth fierce. "And you four…I'm cutting your wages and reporting you to Robert. This kind of negligence is appalling…" The woman crammed the helmet back on her head and set an arm around Astarte's shoulder.

"Robert de Sable? Cousin Robert?" Astarte's voice registered surprise as she allowed Maria to steer her through the crowded streets, accompanied by a large contingent of knights whose presence made the populace more than eager to get out of the way.

"Yes, your _favourite _French cousin-" Astarte made a face which Maria would have laughed at if her peripheral vision hadn't been impaired by the helm. "-and I are married now."

"What?!"

"Wild, isn't it? After you ran away, there weren't many options available, I suppose." Maria chuckled lightly, the pride at being wed to some bald frog swelling in her voice. "I now have my own personal guard of which I am the leader. It's all part of his grand plan, Robert is very influential in the Holy Land, you know."

"That's…nice." Astarte tried to sound like she meant it. Really, she wasn't ready to grasp any of this. Her thoughts were still fixed on the assassin with an almost single-minded intensity.

As she listened to Maria gush animatedly about the wealth of her newfound position, Astarte mulled over the assassins attack. There had been something thrilling about watching the poise with which he'd moved, something beautiful. Ridiculous, that she should find the actions and mystery of a killer so attractive. But it was the same kind of allure that snakes had held for her as a child, their intriguing beauty coupled with deadly speed. Truly, it had terrified everyone in the house each time she brought home another hissing, striking pet and begged to keep it.

She still remembered her horrified guard putting a knife through the most beautiful specimen she'd ever caught when he found it slithering out from under her pillow…the distant memory brought an old anger boiling to the surface. If only that snake had struck like the assassin had, smoothly and ruthlessly. Astarte was frightened to realize that as soon as she'd gotten over the initial shock of the guards death, there was nothing evil about the assassin or his actions at all.

"-And wait until you see Jerusalem!" The armored woman's voice was dulled and distorted by the helmet and Astarte nodded in response and the visor nearly whacked her in the nose as Maria turned her head.

"Is there something wrong, Azzie?" Startled to hear Maria use her pet name, Astarte shrugged.

"Nothing, just hungry and tired. Can I…uh…trouble you for a bath as well?"

"HA! Obsessed with cleanliness, as always! Of course you can have a bath, silly! Come on, let's get that blood off you, shall we?"


	3. Boobs In Every Sense of The Phrase

_**Author's Note:**So, I had a little change of heart involving this story and realized that I wanted everybody much younger then they were when I'd originally thought this out. I want it to make sense and not have plot holes. So, to clarify: The events in Sangreal take place a few years before the game begins, when Altair is at the tender age of nineteen, having just made it when he was eighteen out of novice hood. He is still training, however. It is important to note that Altair and Malik(17 and still a novice, albeit an advanced one.), because they're such badass's, have been quick learners and they're young for their rank. Maria is about twenty two and married Robert when she was twenty. Astarte left England when she was sixteen and it's been sheer luck that she's made it this long. Trust me when I say it's a stretch of historical canon for Maria to have married so late in life(It was typical for a girl to be betrothed at age ten and to consummate the marriage the moment she hit fourteen. Yes, feel free to make a face and grimace at this but it makes sense when you consider things like life-expectancy. Still, very unpleasant.)but let's just say I can see Maria as a problem child and I choose to believe that higher-up women probably had a squinch more freedom than we're inclined to believe. Robert de Sable: Not yet as powerful as he will come to be by the time game-canon rolls around. Sorry for the huge note and enjoy!_

"Are you sure you cant stay? We could secure you a ship back to England-" Maria stood just behind her cousin-in-law, looking completely flummoxed.

"No! Trust me, Maria, I'm fine. Better than fine now that I've got some decent clothing and bit of rest." Astarte sighed at Maria's slightly hurt expression. The other woman was happy as a kept pet, even though she suffered from the delusion that she had more independency than Astarte herself. In all reality, Astarte could go out and do whatever she wanted, support herself. Maria would always be carefully watched.

"I'm sure Robert wouldn't mind if you joined the guard, after all, you're more then competent. All that sneaking over to our manor so you could train with Gaspard and I when we were just little ones-" Join the guard and become another little pet commanded by her baldy cousin? Astarte gave a mental snort and shook her head, setting a hand on Maria's shoulder and gripping it tightly.

"My friend, you've been more than kind. But taking orders from a frenchman is more than this soul and her fragile pride can bear." The two burst out laughing and it took them a good five minutes to recover their breath. Finally, Astarte straightened, adjusting the hood around her neck so it didn't strangle her and regaining her composure. "Healing is my calling, Maria. I want to do this, in my own way, without monks and men interfering." _Without religious fervor destroying my treatment and declaring it unholy to use plants that Goddess put on this earth specifically to aid her children._ Astarte silently amended her explanation.

"Alright, Az. At least take these-" Maria held out a sword and scabbard and a small knife. "This will give me some piece of mind, if nothing else. And please, for the sake of the ruse, do this for me-"

"Ow-No, I'm really fine. I just-oh." Astarte tried in vain to resist as Maria unceremoniously plunked a helmet on her head. It smelled appallingly of iron and mansweat and Astarte's nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Azzie? Az? I'm over here-ooh! Careful!" Astarte peeked through the tiny eye slits at Maria, who was clutching her head and wincing.

"Sorry…I cant see."

"It takes a some getting used to, but it protects against most blows. Oh, and I'm sorry if that stinks a little, it's had a dead man in it." The other woman looked sincerely apologetic, which was the sole reason Astarte did not to rip it off her head and run screaming. Maria had been more than courteous to her, certainly she could bite the blade and clank around in this tin-bucket for a little while longer. And it did heighten the androgyny factor, not to mention that no common foot soldier would dare bother a templar knight. Maria was essentially offering her the protection of the Templars. It was a hefty debt that, at the very least, deserved Astarte's tolerance.

"No it's…nice. Thank you, Maria."

"It suits you, actually. Farewell, my friend."

"Too you as well." Astarte thanked her and assured Maria that she would visit often before venturing out into the throng. Outfitted as she was, Astarte felt new hope well within her. There was a sweetness to her freedom that had been absent before, overshadowed by a constant fear of where her next meal was coming from and if she'd live to see dawn without being robbed blind. Life was better than it had been in years. Maria had even given her a horse stabled just outside Acre's walls, ready for her whenever she decided to leave Acre. Which was today, now, as soon as she could. Even Damascus was rumored to be at least five times as healthy as this pitiful excuse for a city. _Less work, but it's not like I get compensation if I catch the plague here, either. _Astarte laughed aloud at her own joke, tossing back her head and striding proudly and purposefully in the direction of the city gates. Today was going to be a good day.

"Altair! Don't be careless-" Malik said in a hoarse whisper, peering over the roofs edge at his companion.

"Be quiet." Altair slunk along the edge of the rooftop, gazing down at the clumsy templar below him. The red and white clad knight tottered around a little drunkenly, clanking up a racket as he stumbled down the alleyway.

"Master said not to move from that spot, Altair! Not even for a templar-"

"We can kill the templar and be back before master notices we left, Malik. If you were worthy of your rank, you would understand this. Nothing is certain, everything is permitted. You don't have to come if you don't want to, novice." Altair hopped from beam to beam, careful to stalk his prey so that his shadow fell behind him and didn't give away his position. Behind him, he heard the sounds of Malik struggling to follow his example. _This templar must be blind _and _deaf to not hear him._

Altair would admit to himself later that he'd waited just a little too long to leap; that if he'd just jumped before the sun was in his eyes, he wouldn't have fumbled the kill. But he was already sailing through the air when the templar heard Malik fall and turned, throwing up an arm. It was that gesture that saved him: The hidden blade scraped across the metal vambrace and punched itself through the dirt between two cobblestones. A hot, violent shock of pain skittered up Altair's arm from the jarring landing and he cried out, unable to jerk the blade from where it had buried itself up to his knuckle in the dirt. Dismayed, he jerked again and was rewarded by an even more agonizing wrench in his arm.

The templar, knocked out from impact, lay immobile beneath him. That was a small blessing, at least. Struggling violently, Altair heard the soft sound of Malik walking up behind him and turned his head to glare at the novice assassin.

"Well, what are you looking at?" He snapped furiously, yanking on his blade once more. This time, the pain flared up and stayed, throbbing angrily through his shoulder blade. _Terrific, now I've pulled something…climbing will be misery._ Malik stood over him with an air of self-satisfaction, unnerved by the situation but nonetheless delighted that the older, more experienced boy was trapped and unable to free himself.

"Wait until the other's here about this! What will Al Mualim say when he learns that his favourite student failed to do anything but give his target a nasty concussion and in the process lost his hidden blade? What will the other novices say, I shudder to think-"

"Don't just stand there, Malik! The guards-" Altair was not even able to finish his snarling warning before Maria and her own personal following came racing around the corner, blades drawn.

"ASSASSINS!" Malik satisfied smirk dropped off his face and he yanked his sword from its sheath to face the oncoming hoard. Altair, desperate in his haste, placed his hand on the fallen templar's chest and tried to push himself to his knees. Wait-? Despite the sounds of the battle raging behind him, Altair noticed something distinctly different about this templar…it had two a very soft, cushiony objects on its upper chest-

"ALTAIR!" Altair flipped on his back, twisting his arm painfully as he lifted his sword to block a blow and then impaled the guard on his next move. Turning back to his trapped arm as the body fell, Altair yanked a throwing knife from the belt at his side and slit the leather straps that affixed the blade to his wrist. The fight was a short one against such an overwhelming force and not but a moment later, Altair and Malik were backed up against a wall, trapped like rats by ten soldiers a piece.

"No! Don't kill them! I want them alive…" A shrill voice cried out and a slender, armored figure shoved it's way past the sneering guards, a motley assembly of both Christian and Muslim soldiers that all bore identical expressions of malice. The figure stopped before them and took off it's helmet to reveal a rather pretty, dark-haired _woman_. "Allow me to introduce myself, Assassins: my name is Maria de Sable, and might I say that I am _very _pleased to have caught you."

**Author's Note:** _That bitch! Ha, forgive me for demonizing Maria; I'm using my artistic/vindictive license. I mean, no one who smirks and beckons like she does in AC II is a sweet little good girl: Maria's a crafty one. She gets a bit worse next chapter and then goes away for awhile…not sure how long, still working out my plot. Do you like Prince Arrogant and his anatomical discovery? XD_


	4. Henbane, Monkshood and Belladona

**_Author's Note:_ **_First, I apologize for the ridiculously long wait! I've been a bit busy and I'm fairly certain fans of(or should I just say readers of?) Disenchanted are going to hit me with an unforgivable curse if they don't get their monthly dose of Tom Riddle soon. I spent about two hours trying to brush up on my history about stuff before the third crusade and fell asleep twice so your just going to have to forgive me(and point out) if I make a drastically huge historical mistake somewhere along the line. Also, please please please review! That's the only thing that keeps me updating, knowing that I have a readership! Whereas fav's and alerts are terrific, concrete feedback is great too! In any case, enjoy these two chapters!_

Astarte woke up in bed and exalted. Was it possible that her misadventure's of the last two years and three months had all been a dream? After all, it felt like just yesterday when she'd refused to marry Robert and had that horrible fight with her father-Astarte opened her eyes and her heart sank. _Speak of the devil…_

"Ah, petite cousine! Maria, she is awake…" The glare coming off Robert's prematurely bald head hurt her eyes and she winced and tried to roll away as he bent and pressed his lips to her forehead.

"Piss off, Robert." She said grudgingly, glaring at her French cousin with utmost dislike. She put a special emphasis on pronouncing the T at the end, very aware of how such an anglicized pronunciation would irk the sensitive Frenchman. He smiled welcomingly despite the jibe, opening his arms magnanimously and inclining his head. His wife came sweeping into the small, modestly adorned guest chamber; a histrionical expression of horror on her face.

"Oh, Azzie!" Maria, while she'd always been the superior swordswoman, had never possessed Astarte's flair for dramatics. Nor, consequently, was she as talented in the use of invective straightforwardness.  
"Don't you dare Azzie me, you pampered French PET!" Astarte pushed herself up in a sitting position, vaguely registering that her head had been bandaged and her clothes changed. The nurse who'd been lurking at her bed was aghast at Astarte's foul insult and looked comically from Robert to Maria as though they might blame her for her patient's behaviour. To Maria's credit, her overdone expression did not falter in the slightest as she dragged Astarte into an awkward embrace.

"Oh, Az! You hit your head-"

"Unfortunately for you, I didn't hit it hard _enough_." Astarte jerked herself out of Maria's arms and stood up, still whoozy but furious enough not to care.

"Astarte Sangreal, I would never intentionally wish you harm! Now, I think you should calm down-" The honesty rang clear as a bell in the first statement but Astarte remained standing, folding her arms over her chest.

" No, not intentionally. But you certainly had no qualms about using your 'best friend' as Assassin Bait. I hope they got away, too, you -" Astarte trailed off into a stream of curses so foul that her nurse had to leave the room. As she trailed off, Robert burst into booming laughter that echoed around the chamber. A flicker of outrage glinted in Maria's eyes and she let out an exasperated noise and dropped all pretense.

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I _did _catch them." She preened as Robert smirked down at her proudly, his hands on her shoulders. "Honestly, Az, you're being completely unreasonable-"

"I could have gotten _killed_, this is just like when we were children and we dressed up as peasants to go running around your fathers fiefdom. _I _nearly got _my _hands cut off because _you _stole that bakers wares-"

"Yes, yes, ancient history. But this plan worked out beautifully so it's completely different. I didn't just catch one, I caught _two._" Maria pleaded, fluttering her eyelashes and taking Astarte's hands in hers. _Oh, isn't that just so typical!! 'Oh, please, Azzie darling wont you forgive me? We got away with it, didn't we?' How many times have I heard _that _one before?_ Maria's crazy plans had always involved risk and subterfuge and Astarte was furious that she'd been unwittingly tricked into being part of this one. Despite being married and practically an adult, Maria still hadn't outgrown this particular brand of conniving idiocy.

"No, Maria." Astarte sighed and shook her head, taking her hands back. As she did, she saw the long bruise on her wrist where the assassin's blade had struck the vambrace. _I really could have been killed and she has no idea…_A thought struck her then: Why _hadn't _the assassins killed her? Maria's soldiers had probably been too close, but then again, she wouldn't have dared jeopardize the integrity of such a clever ruse by having a force tail Astarte too attentively...

"Please, let me make it up to you over dinner. The tailor's just finished your-"

"You had a _tailor _make me clothing? Knowing that I wouldn't make it out of the city in a dead man's armor? Is there anything else you'd like to tell me, Maria? One more unexpected surprise might just finish me off." She snapped snidely, not really as surprised as she made herself sound. Typical, typical, typical!

~*~

Two hours later, Astarte picked at her fish broodingly, having shot down Maria's overly cheerful stabs at conversation with curt replies. Robert was now discussing something with a young man called Sibrand who kept shooting her curious looks across the table. _Probably the damn dress…asking for something that leaves so little to the imagination is her idea of a clever joke. _The simple cotton gown that Maria had commissioned for her was beautiful but obviously impractical, something she'd probably wear to this dinner and then never again in her entire life. It wasn't even a colour she was fond of, a bold, venous blood red that suited Maria's tastes far more than it did her's. At least Maria had also had the presence of mind to order her a few sets of normal tunics and leggings as well, but that did not make Astarte feel anymore charitable toward her. With a loud clack, she threw her fork down and pushed her chair back from the table.

"You'll have to excuse me, my appetite seems to be rather diminished tonight." She told the dismayed looking servant at her elbow. She turned back to Robert and Maria's guilt-ridden expression with a clipped 'goodnight' and a nod.

"Milady, allow me to escort you to your chamber-" The man who Robert had been speaking to stood up abruptly and offered her his arm. _Please, I've swatted flies bigger than you._ Astarte reined in the urge to prove this thought by smacking the ridiculously eager whelp upside the head and instead tried for gentle rebuke:

"The gesture is appreciated but not-"

"Oh, come, petite cousine! Give a man a chance, wont you? Sibrand, you have my permission to escort her wherever you wish, whether she wants to go or not!" The men around the table roared with laughter as Sibrand's cheeks flared pink with embarrassment. Astarte, thoroughly fed up, snatched a hold of his arm and dragged him from the room and into the hall.

She steered him around the corner and down the corridor until they were well out of earshot of anyone else before releasing him and setting a furious pace towards her own room. Sibrand jogged along beside her, clanking a little in his military gear. Panting, he tried to chat her up:

"I heard that you helped capture the assassins today. That was…very brave-"

"You heard wrong."

"Oh. Well, maybe you could-"  
"I don't think so, Sibrand. Goodnight." Astarte slammed the door in his crestfallen face and bolted it tightly. It took her but a moment to strip off and don a more practical tunic, jerkin, traveling cloak, riding breeches, and boots from the chest at the foot of her bed. She stuffed the remaining clothing, a few apples and a loaf of bread into her bag, shifting aside the pouch of herbs and bandages that Maria's apothecary had taken the liberty of restocking for her to make room for the additional cloth. She left the templar sword, knowing that the weight of carrying it around wasn't worth the meager protection it offered. On principal, she left the bulging coin purse where it lay beside the blade. There was a loud knock on her door and Astarte dropped the bag and turned.

"Hello?"

"Lady de Sable?" Astarte stormed over to the door and threw it open to reveal a terrified page standing on the threshold, a missive clutched in his hand. She was about to correct the young boy and tell him to try the door on the left when she noticed her family's seal on the envelope and froze. She held out her hand for the message and he handed it to her and scampered away. Astarte shut the door, pulled her athame from her belt and opened the envelope.

_ Dear Maria,_

_It is always such a delight to hear from you! You've always been so kind to our family and the news of my daughters whereabouts…_

Astarte read on, unable to comprehend the extent of Maria's betrayal. Here, written in her fathers hand, was proof that her childhood friend had deceived her yet again. According to the letter she held in her hands, a good portion of her father's men would arrive tomorrow to aid Maria in her crusade against the assassin's. This gesture was 'to express my gratitude to you for your services to the family'. Astarte was to be handed over to 'a guard of fifteen so that my errant daughter might be escorted homeward at the earliest convenience'. Unable to read the rest, Astarte crumbled up the heavy parchment and threw it into the fire.

"You think you can just scheme your way to the top like always, don't you, Mary? Well you've got another thing coming, you sorry cow!" Astarte stuffed her athame back into it's sheath and snagging the templar sword as well and coin purse as well. Astarte felt like she had on the night she ran away from home: Stupid, reckless, invincible. _No one _was going to steal her freedom from her, she'd rather die on an assassins blade then go back to a life where her actions were preordained by the expectations of others. In fact…_Oh, foolish Maria. You did always underestimate me when we were children, and you never learned._

Giddy with the strength of her fervor, she whipped around the room like a whirlwind making preparations: A pinch of henbane to the hot peppermint tea steeping over the fire, the tiniest dash of monshood and(just to be vindictive) a touch of belladona. It was a shame that this brew would never touch Maria's lips, but it would nonetheless prove itself exceedingly useful as the plan progressed.

Leaving the wicked brew to marinade in the boiling water, Astarte turned to the mirror. It would be impractical to change back into the red gown, but she'd have to tweak things a little if her devious scheme for retribution was to succeed. She loosened the ties on the jerkin and pulled the belt up on her tunic so that it emphasized the hourglass look that men seemed to desire.

Once the tea had steeped for an appropriate length of time, Astarte poured it into two ornamental goblets. Being careful not to inhale the vapor, she spooned a little sugar into the concoction and stirred it well. Astarte made a face as she poured a little cream into each goblet. She was just going to have to trust to the peppermint and her own feminine wiles to mask the bitter flavour long enough for the herbs to take effect. Turning back to the bed, she looped the strap of her bag around her neck so it hung down her back and then fastened the cloak over it. Carefully, she nudged the door of her room open and tip-toed out.

"Where do you think your going?" Astarte froze and turned to the burly guard behind her, affecting her best imperial gaze.

"Who do you think you are? I am a noble guest of this household and I-"

"Save it. I'm getting paid a guinea per hour to make sure you stay in that chamber--" _I don't have time for this!_ Astarte ripped the coin purse from her belt and handed it to him dispassionately. The guard checked the weight of it and raised an eyebrow at her.

"So…how de you reckon you escaped?"

"Through the window, of course." And without another word, she made her way down the hall to…oh, what was his name? Simon? Si-something's chamber and knocked, flicking her hair out so that it fell in a sheet of gold down her back. This was her secret weapon: long hair unbound. The church put strict regulations in place that a virtuous woman's hair, if at all possible, should be kept hidden so as not to entice men to commit sin. Normally, Astarte adhered to this stringent requirement religiously; any woman with a brain between her ears knew how dangerous attracting unwanted attention was. Tonight, however, it was just as worthy a weapon as the goblet's contents. There was a scuffling sound behind the door and a slot slid aside to reveal a pair of blue green eyes glaring at her suspiciously and then widening when they recognized her. The door swung open and revealed Sibrand, still wearing his templar uniform and looking astonished to see her.

"Milady? Why are you…so oddly dressed?"

"You'll have to forgive me for my behaviour earlier, I just despised that gown. I prefer to wear clothing like this, its so much more…" She fluttered her eyelashes at him coquettishly and handed him the goblet. "…practical."

"Oh." He was staring fixedly at her like a snake before its charmer, eyes flicking from her hair to her chest and back again mindlessly. Astarte placed and hand on his cheek and smiled sweetly into his terrified expression.

"I was hoping you might give me a tour of the castle tonight and, of course, have a drink with me?" She layered her voice with sickly sweet overtones of seduction, taking his hand and placing it around her waist. Mesmerized, he took a sip from the goblet. Instantly, his eyes crossed and he pursed his lips and choked.

"I…uh, what sort of liquor is this?" He thumped his chest and coughed a little.

"Tea, Milord. I brewed it myself. If it does not suit your tastes-" She affected an injured expression and pretended to take a sip from her own goblet. He quickly followed suit and took a gigantic gulp from his, shaking his head furiously.

"No! No, it's just that I've never drank something so…healthful." Astarte smiled at the foolish young man and looked over at a set of stairs leading downwards before giving a wistful sigh. Sibrand, eager to please, jumped on the unspoken request:

"Is there any part of the keep that you'd wish to tour first, Milady?" She let him gradually coax the information out of her, but after a moment of practiced hesitation, she made her demand:

"I know it's a very strange thing for a woman to ask, but I would absolutely love to see the dungeons."

"I…er, certainly!" Sibrand was her ticket past the guards, and as they went, she poured the entire contents of her goblet into their pitcher of wine.

Astarte's eyes darted around the three cells eagerly until she found what she was looking for: Two figures in white staring at her from behind the bars of the second cell on the left. The assassins! One of them, the nearest, was dressed in slightly different garb: His red sash was shorter and the white robes had a sort of off-gray tinge to them. He was slighter then his counterpart and peered at her curiously, the first scrubbings of a tiny beard shadowing his chin. His countenance was less frightening, almost childish in comparison to the Assassin behind him.

Astarte's turned her attention to the second and her breath caught. His snow white garb glowed luminescent in the silver moonlight that trickled through into the cell, the long red sash lit afire in stark, crimson contrast. He possessed the subtle strength that looked all the more menacing because he was still, just waiting for his prey to make the wrong move. Ever so slowly, he lifted his hooded head to and glared at her, gray eyes pinning her in place. _Oh, dear goddess, what is it that I'm preparing to unleash?_ Astarte's giddy exhilaration was shot through with a stab of fear.

"Er…Lady Astarte? I am…unwell, I think." Astarte turned towards Sibrand just in time to watch him drop the cup and stare at the ceiling with growing horror. His gaze snapped back to her face and he whimpered and brought his hands up to cover his eyes, obviously terrified.

"Milord, you mustn't be frightened. It's just a hallucination, it can't hurt you. Come on, let's lie you down." Astarte almost felt pity for the poor man as she lead him into an empty cell and gently sat him down on a pallet in the corner. He whimpered and trembled, shaking his head and moaning in horror. Just a moment and the henbane, provided she hadn't dosed it incorrectly, should knock him-Sibrand's shoulders went slack under her hands and he slid into unconsciousness. She touched her fingertips to his wrist and felt the thump of his heart, it's rhythm depressed but still strong. She exited the cell and shut the heavy iron door behind her, turning to face her new objective.

_**Author's Note:** Oh, poor Sibrand! Now we all know why he's such a whiny little arse in the game, right? ;)_


	5. Leap of Faith

_**Author's Note: **__Alright, we finally meet Altair! I won't bore you with a note, except to apologize for any clumsiness in the writing on my part! I rushed this a little…. _

Altair had always been good at watching and waiting. Observation was in some ways an assassins most useful skill. Now, he studied with interest as their unexpected guest laid out her prey gently on the floor, feeling for a pulse. She was young, maybe a year or two his junior. The long, blonde, and hugely impractical hair of a noblewoman spilled across her back in a sheet of gold; framing her pale, aquiline features. There was a certain kind of understated beauty to her hooded olive eyes and she had a gaze that, even in pity for the man she had poisoned, looked surprisingly cold. She stood up briskly and looked at Malik, her smile genial.

"Assassin, have you seen the key?" Altair wondered if Malik had noticed that the guards carried the keys on their person and obtaining one was going to require more strength and skill than a mere woman could possess. Malik looked uncertain for a moment and then glanced at the floor in defeat. _No, he didn't notice. Typical novice._ _If I tell her, she'll only get herself killed. _Their rescue was finished before it began without the keys. Altair turned his back on the woman and relegated himself to the bench once more.

"And you? I think you should tell you don't, I'll have to break this latch and wake up everyone in the Keep. You two could run fast enough to get away, I have no doubt, but your not the only ones who are escaping tonight." Altair looked up at where the woman was examining the chain and padlock securing the iron door in place, a hand on her sword hilt. She glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow, her sword rasping dully as she pulled it from the sheath and clucked her tongue. "Oh well, hope your raring for a fight, assassin-"

"Stop." Altair stood up, holding out a hand to halt her swing. "The guards have the keys on their belts. I doubt you can overcome them."

"Oh? No need to overcome them, they've been…" She looked back at the crumpled figure in the corner of the adjacent cell. "…similarly dispatched. Excuse me-"

A moment later, she returned with the key, looking unnerved by something as she fitted it in the lock and turned. With a satisfying clank, the door swung open and Malik rushed out so quickly he nearly trampled her.

"Who are you?" Malik stared at her nervously, reaching instinctively for weapons that weren't there. Seeing this, the woman took a nervous step backwards and her friendly gaze flickered.

"My name is irrelevant. We should go before the guards change shifts and discover those two--are you coming?" She sounded exasperated, poking her head into the cell to glare at him.

"I am not going anywhere with a templar woman and a novice who have no idea where their going or what to do when they get there." Altair scoffed broodingly, folding his arms over his chest and wincing slightly as the soreness of his pulled muscle flared with the gesture. He wasn't an idiot, he wanted to escape. But _he'd _wanted to be the one to think of the escape plan, not some trifling little female who obviously had no idea what she was doing.

"Look, you are leaving whether you want to or whether you don't." Yes, his first assumptions had been correct. This silly creature had spent time in a court and she was used to people obeying her without question. She was asking, not demanding. She stormed into the cell and Altair bristled and jumped to his feet, glowering at her from under his hood.

"Do I look like a templar to you?" She queried, clearly frustrated.

"No…but woman are seldom what they seem." He loomed over her, folding his arms across his chest

"I am not letting you stay here because that bint tricked me into being bait. I will not be outdone by my cousin and his insufferable wife, that bitch Maria-" The expression on her face was one of building fury, her fists clenched at her sides as she fairly spit the words at him: "Now, _move _your _obstinate _assassin _arse _before I sheath this _sword_ in your-"

"What's this? Laying down on the job?! Oi, wake up…what-?"

"They've been poisoned-" Altair grabbed the woman's upper arm and dragged her out of the cell as the confused guards rounded the corner. "STOP!! ASSASSIN!!"

Malik sprang from the shadows and landed on the first guard, breaking his neck with a sharp crack and disarming him before the second had even swung his sword. There was a deafening clang that seemed to reverberate throughout the entire castle as their blades met. There was a terrified whimper and the man took off, bellowing for all he was worth. Malik sprang over the body of the fallen but Altair caught his shoulder.

"We haven't got the time to track him. They're sure to have heard us already-" Altair turned to the blonde where she was staring in horror at where the soldier had just escaped. He gave her a rough shake and she yanked her arm out of his grasp with an annoyed look on her face. "Show us the way out."

"I suppose a thank you is too much to ask," She grumbled, rolling her eyes. "This way."

They raced frantically through the labyrinthine corridors after her, their soft soled boots making little noise on the stone. It became apparent after the first ten minutes, however, that their saviour had no idea where she was going. She plunged down long stairwell at a breakneck pace, suddenly confident.

"No! I remember now! This is the way…we just have to sneak past-"

"Get them!"

"-the guards! Go back up!" She was suddenly pushing them back up the spiral staircase, dizzy and breathless.

"But-" Malik began, hefting his sword hopefully.

"Too many! MOVE!" They ran full pelt up the stairs, dashing up past the landing they'd come out on as more soldiers spilled through behind them, rising like an angry hive of bees. Despite the terror, the desperate claustrophobia of being trapped in the lion's den; Altair felt exhilarated for the first time in days. The patch of starry sky set against the crenellated battlements was brilliant and bright with the harsh but refreshing clarity of mortality.

Astarte was experiencing a much different feeling: unadulterated terror. Stupid, stupid idea! The guards had seen _her, _and there was a very strong likelihood that they'd recognized her, too. She tried to catch her breath as she ran pell-mell across the wall, hearing the defenders shouting and screaming very real threats in her ears. If they caught her, they'd kill her. The difficult assassin exploded through the doorway she'd left behind, breezing past her like a red and white comet.

She felt a tug on her belt and nearly tumbled to the ground, slowing and splaying out her arms to catch her balance. Before she could even cry out, she watched the assassin fly. She knew he hadn't really taken to the air, but the grace with which he jumped and the way his robes flew out behind him, the athame glinting in the moonlight as he plunged it into the wall guards throat...it _looked _like flight. She skidded to a stop before she could trip over the dead body and then leapfrogged awkwardly over the still twitching man. She felt the lesser assassin snatch her arm, urging her to even greater speeds.

She heard a whistling sound and arrows clattered off the stones at her heels and she had to bite her lip against a shriek of terror, dashing ahead. She felt a yank on her shoulder as the assassin began climbing the corner tower and her stomach flipped. _Why the _hell _are we climbing higher?! _With no other option left to her, she followed the two assassins clumsily, her hair in her eyes and the scent of salt in her nose as she teetered over a hundred feet off the ground, scrambling up the pitted stone with difficulty.

A hand shot out and snatched her by the scruff of her tunic and this time, she let herself shriek. She was suspended in open air for a mere moment before he pulled her over the crenellated edge to safety. They were crouched under the walls protective edge, listening to the arrows pinging off the stone and the rough scrapings of their pursuers scrabbling for purchase.

"Malik, the time has come for your initiation. You must perform the Leap of Faith if you wish to escape." He had such a cool, decisive voice; this more threatening assassin. She had to admit that, in situations like this one, it was a welcome relief. Astarte turned her gaze to the one called Malik and was shocked to see the look of fear in the young man's eyes.

"But Hafiz and Al Mualim have not yet dictated a-"

"This is your moment: Jump an assassin or die a novice." _Jump? He cant possibly mean jump off the tower…no lunatic in their right mind would-_

"NO!" Astarte surged to her feet as Malik inched out onto a piece of scaffolding like a tender fledgling at the edge of the nest…and launched himself out into thin air. He hung there, suspended for a moment like a gull on an updraft, and then dropped out of sight. She ran to the edge, peering down at the moonlit courtyard and shouting for all she was worth. _He killed him! HOW COULD HE DO THAT?!_

"Get down! Get down before-"

Astarte heard the arrows before she felt them. The quivering whine that sliced through the air like a pair of angry hornets was distinct, clear in her ears despite the assassins frantic bellowing. Their was an impact from the side and then a sharp punch to the middle of her back. At first, the only thing she was aware of was the wet thunking sound that meant the missiles had found their target. And then…burning pain.

She turned her head to look at the assassin, her body swaying drunkenly as she staggered back against the stone. She felt herself falling backwards with nothing to hold onto, watching the top of the wall sail past her feet as she plunged. Something was wrong, though. She did not feel as though gravity were forcing her down…she felt like she was floating like a feather to the hard and unforgiving stone. _The arrows…they must have been poisoned. That's ironic. _Astarte gazed heavenward and the last thing she saw before pain blazed like a flame was the assassin; his arms spread wide like an eagles wings, silhouetted against the perfect, starry sky.


	6. Assassin's Bureau

_**Author's Note: **__I apologize HUGELY for the obscenely long wait, guys. I do have every excuse in the world I assure you, but I won't bore you with them! Thank you for all the reviews, favs and alerts that I've received! It's really great to know that my crummy writing is appreciated. And if you haven't reviewed yet, REVIEW!_

A man's face with eyes like steel that were wide with fright…a swirl of white and crimson…the black shaft of an arrow rudely interrupting her line of sight where it jutted from her arm, quivering as blood crusted around it's head, crumbling across her pale skin in an impressive garnet swathe…

She could hear the sounds of tramping feet running across cobbles, the soft cat's patter that was just below her…three people rasping for breath: her own labored, popping wheeze and the steady, measured inhalations of the two white ghosts as they flew with her between them like ivory reapers…the throb of her pulse beating against her eardrums like a tiny, guttering hammer…

But none of it compared to what she could _feel_. The muscles of her shoulders blazed without respite, a sore agony that kept her toes dragging and stumbling across the uneven stones that blurred in and out with each thud of her heart. She felt as though she had been stung by something enormous in her right arm. A sensation like creeping, miniscule spiders were trickling up her finger tips and leaving in their wake a gradual loss of feeling. Another stinger was lodged just to the left of her spine, though this one felt not nearly as deep. It took such a tremendous effort to keep her eyes open…everything was so very heavy. Then, there was a scrape of straw and she knew nothing but darkness.

~*~

Astarte rose gradually from the murk of unconsciousness with childlike disorientation. Someone was humming quietly to themselves and she could hear the gentle clink of ceramic pots being shuffled around. The air had a kind of dank, cold quality that was typical of stone structures. She was lying on something that had varying levels of softness to it, but was altogether much too comfortable and secure for her to be dead. _In fact, this pillow has such an interesting consistency, so…ALIVE?!_

"AH!" Astarte jerked upwards in fright and a dagger-like agony pulled at her back. "Ahhh."

"Shush, shush! Don't wake them…if there's one thing the years haven't taken from me, it's the knowledge that adolescents are at their best when asleep." Astarte looked up, focusing on an elderly man in assassin's garb. He looked kind and, well, _mostly _harmless. She winced a little as she pushed herself up on her knees. A band tightened around her waist and she abruptly found herself being unceremoniously yanked back down into the soft, silky nest of pillows and against the body of the man on whom she'd been resting her head.

"Well, that Altair is a strange child. He'd never get that close to anyone conscious, you know." The old man chuckled into his beard and then his expression shifted minutely. "Unless, of course, he were about to kill them."

"I-" Astarte swallowed and took a moment to properly assess her situation.

The smell of sweat and dirt were most immediate in her senses, the smell of old blood was an unsettling addition to the medley. She turned her head slightly and spied the source. There was a small, rust-coloured patch on the otherwise cream-white bandaged wrapped around her upper arm. The injury ached dully, but not in the persistent, dangerous warm soreness of an infected wound. She turned her head the other way and saw the source of the other smells.

Curled up on the pile of cushions and rugs on either side of her were the two assassins, sleeping as soundly as cats in the gray, midday sunlight that trickled through the slats in the ceiling. Both were still clothed in their white garb. The dangerous one was sleeping closest to her, he must be the Altair to whom the old man was referring. It was a loose interpretation of the phrase 'sleeping close', he was practically sleeping on top of her! Astarte wriggled slightly and an arm banded with lean muscle tightened around her waist and like a python's deadly embrace.

"Ah, so our little _Aisha _is awake then, is she? For a day there, we weren't sure if you would wake up." There was a thump as someone landed on stone a few feet away and a man walked into her field of vision. If Astarte had to guess his age, she'd have placed him in the late-twenties bracket. He had an easy grin and his English was heavily accented.

I-how many days?" The time span had not felt like days, at the most it had seemed like hours.

"Only, hmm, how many was it, Rafik?" The old man shrugged noncommittally and considered.

"Three days." Rafik nodded and Astarte nearly fainted again. _Three days. No wonder they didn't think I would wake up._ The younger man grinned amusedly at her bedfellows and chuckled: "I see the boys have welcomed you into the fold quite generously. You'll have to forgive them, your occupying the softest place in the bureau, Aisha."

Just at that moment, Altair decided to give her abdomen another rib-breaking squeeze. She barely managed to wet her lips and gasp out: "Aisha?"

"Ah, my black sense of humour, little noble one. The name means: 'She who is alive' . Lively one, you see the contradiction?" Astarte cracked a weak smile that broke off into a scandalized expression as the unconscious Altair buried his face in her neck. Fed up, she turned around and gave him a mighty slap upside the head. It shot blades of agony through her shoulder to do it and she immediately regretted it. Not because of the pain, however.

Because in less time than it had taken her to blink, she was being forcefully pinned and there was a blade at her throat. The second assassin-Malik-had rolled off the cushions and was also facing her, a throwing knife in hand. The two master assassins looked amused, scrubbing their beards and feigning disinterest.

"Get off of me!" Astarte snapped, more annoyed than afraid. He wasn't holding her in a way that wouldn't have hurt her if she'd been uninjured, but as things were, his weight was pressing on a wound she'd been previously unaware of between her shoulder-blades. And he knew it! Damn him!

"Altair-" Someone barked orders in Arabic and he released her, standing up sinuously and turning to who ever had addressed him. Astarte gasped and sat up, panting quietly as she rubbed her throat.

"Forgive me, Master, but I assumed that she would be gone before she awoke. Was that not the plan? So as not to compromise the Brotherhood further?" Astarte pushed herself forward onto her knees, careful not jar any of the arrow wounds further by moving too quickly.

"You compromised the brotherhood the moment you brought her here instead of dropping her in an alleyway somewhere." Astarte was starting to hate people discussing her fate as though she wasn't present. Frustrated, she pushed herself up on her left arm and tried to straighten her spine. Immediately, angry soreness forced her back to her knees, where she stayed, gasping like a fish as they continued to speak over her struggles.

"She was injured because of Altair's carelessness! We couldn't just leave her to die…" This last came from Malik and she managed a weak grin at him, even though his eyes were elsewhere.

"Hear, hear." She sat on her bottom and looked up at all of them as they started as though the cushions themselves had spoken. Scooting across the stone pitifully, she came to rest at Malik's ankles and glared at the rest of them. "Nice to know somebody appreciates me for more then body heat."

"We should have left you to die, Templar pet." Altair snapped, sounding more petulant then threatening.

"Go bugger yourself, Good-looking." There was a sharp rasp of steel and Astarte curled up into the fetal position with a pitiful squeak of pain. Eventually the sounds of scuffle died down and she opened her eyes to see Altair shrugging off the restraining arms of the other three.

"Would you make up your minds? If you're going to kill me, do it already. The agony of indecision is a wee bit boring for me." She uncurled herself and examined her blood-stained bandages. They would need to be changed soon or she'd bleed straight through.

"I'm afraid, little Aisha, that is not our decision to make." Altair opened his mouth like he was about to argue but was silenced by a glance. Clearly frustrated, he satisfied himself by giving the wall a mighty punch.

"My name is Astarte and I have places to be and things to do. Where's the bloody door out of here?" Trying very hard to ignore the pain, she staggered up until she was almost standing. _I did it- _"AHHH!"

Someone caught her under the armpits before she could crack her knees on the floor. Blinded by pain, she couldn't see who it was and they dropped her quickly. She fell sideways, sprawled across a thick rug, lights dancing before her eyes. Dizzy, so dizzy…and they were discussing her again.

"Come on, little one, breathe." _What happened? Oh._ She sat up weakly and struggled to quell the nausea, trying to speak past it:

"Get off, I can make it. Just show me the door-" Astarte pitched forward onto her elbows, ignoring the long-suffering sigh from behind her, as she began her slithering progress across the stone.

"This is pathetic." Altair made a disgusted noise from across the room. Briefly, Astarte considered using her last reserve of strength in an attempt to bite his foot off at the ankle. After quickly coming to the conclusion that his boots were too thick, she proceeded to search for the door. No door, how did they get in and out of this bloody pit?

"Somehow, it is not as pathetic as an assassin losing his blade to a cobble-stone street." The master assassin glared at him until he looked away. She'd paused to rest for a moment before dragging herself another pitiful three inches across the carpet and lay there, panting up at him.

"The door is there." He pointed, smiling at her in that vaguely annoying way a person smiles when they know something others don't. Astarte looked up at the fountain, confused. Then she kept looking up and spotted a large rectangular door in the lattice roof. With the very last iota of strength in her body, she dragged herself to the edge of the fountain, ignoring the exclamations of disbelief behind her as she reached for the lowest handhold with shaking fingers.

"Do you plan to crawl back to England, Aisha?" Clearly, the name update had been ignored. She gripped the handhold with her fingertips and gave a mighty push with her left leg. Someone plucked her off the wall like she was a freakish, gimpy gecko and deposited her on the cushions again. This time, she had enough sense to lay there in nauseated agony.

"I don't…" She gasped, feeling herself slide towards unconsciousness. "…please, don't kill me."


	7. Hiya hnesh

**Author's Note:** _Yeah, chapters keep beginning with Astarte unconscious :P. This is not intentional, I actually had another beginning to this chap with Altair being petulant, but I couldn't figure out how to blend the two. I apologize for the crumminess of having a main character who's constantly shifting in and out of consciousness, I'm just lazy, I suppose. It won't continue if I can help it. Sooooo sorry for the long wait, btw. Busy with life. R & R my lovelies!_

They were taking her…somewhere. Through a haze of belladona induced lethargy, Astarte could only sense pieces of what was going on. They barely needed to drug her, she was so weak. Someone was speaking to her, their tone almost soothing. _Hafiz_. Someone binding her wrists and lashing them to a saddle a cascade of silk as someone fitted a veil over her face. A midday heat that was so intense it felt as though she were trapped at the very center of the sun, her head resting on a white-robed shoulder. The burning, itching tingle of sweat trickling into her wounds and the gradual decrease in temperature as night fell. The feel of a wooden spoon at her lips, hands tipping her head back so she would drink-

Astarte tossed her head forward and choked, drowning and coughing and shaking at the heavy cloak of numbness that threatened to drag her back into barely functioning oblivion.

"Stop. Please." She croaked, pushing at the arm that held the spoon and gasping for breath. She opened her eyes and rolled on her side, curling into a ball. She felt someone grab her chin roughly-

"Altair, leave her be." The assassin withdrew and Astarte lay on the blanket for what felt like an eternity.

When she finally opened her eyes again, it was to blessed, full-functioning consciousness. A warm, orange fire was burning at the center of the makeshift camp, three horses tethered just outside the meager circle of light. Two sleeping figures lay with their backs to the glow, their hoods down in sleep. Across from her, his face obscured in the heat haze that wafted up from the crackling flames, was Altair. Astarte pushed herself up into a sitting position using her uninjured arm, exquisitely aware of grey eyes tracking her every minute movement.

"May I have…water? Water without…whatever you brewed to keep me quiet." She took the waterskin he handed her and sniffed it suspiciously. It _smelled _clean enough. She took a gulp and then held it back out towards him, water running down her chin.

"You must be thirstier than that, Templar. Why do you not drink your fill?" Astarte nearly choked on her swallow and glared up at him.

"I wouldn't want to deprive you," She shot back, thrusting the waterskin at him insistently. He pretended not to notice and continued to stare at her with quizzical indifference. Frustrated, Astarte sighed and set the water skin down. "are you planning on feeding me?"

"If you answer my questions."

"I haven't got any interesting answers, if that's what your hoping for." Astarte was struck by a chilling thought: What if they wanted information from her and were willing to torture her as a means to procure it? She had nothing to tell them, but would they believe her? Had their positions been reversed, she knew that Robert and Maria would not have hesitated to strap an assassin to the rack and stretch him until he broke.

"Where do you come from? You speak with a gentler tongue than most who hail from Acre." Astarte resisted the urge to laugh at his thinly veiled expression of disgust as he referred to the common, cockney accent and perhaps the lilting French one that sounded beautiful until you were exposed to it on a regular basis.

"Glastonbury. It's far north of here, and much colder, wetter. I've…been in Acre for three years now, but it's nice to know that I haven't completely lost the courtly airs of my upbringing." Astarte hesitated to say 'lived in Acre' and glimpsed the frown that crossed the assassin's angular face at the omission. She heard her stomach grumble and cleared her throat emphatically.

"Eat." He filled a bowl with something stewing over the fire and handed her a chunk of bread. She wolfed it down, table manners be damned. When her appetite dimmed enough that she was able to only take the occasional bite, he continued his interrogation.

"How does a noblewoman sink as low as to become a beggar in a city she could rule?" Astarte paused with a dripping hunk of bread halfway to her mouth. _He knows what I am? I didn't think it was that obvious…_

"Lot's of reasons, none of them of any import to you or the ultimate fate of the holy land." She licked the salty, gamey tasting broth from her lips and tore off a bite of bread.

" Where is your husband?"

"I refused to take one three years ago." Astarte snapped, disliking where the conversation was heading. Speaking to this Altair was like speaking to a hunting falcon; his expression and tone of voice never warmed. "My lack of marital status is none of your business or concern, other than to gather that no one will miss me. Goodnight."

"Did you refuse to take one or did none want you?" Astarte pushed herself up on an elbow and stared at him, utterly speechless. Was he mocking her? But no, his expression remained the same neutral mask of brooding inquiry.

"The next time you have the pleasure of meeting Robert, you can ask him how much he was willing to pay for me. The sum was…substantial." She rolled over on her back and pretended to fall asleep.

"I did not know that the English were in the practice of selling their women like chattel.""

"So you were looking for freedom when you came to a land ravaged by invaders?" Every question just became more insulting then the last.

"I just got on a boat and _left_, assassin. Then the boat landed and I lived here in tolerable poverty until you came along with Maria on your heels and ruined an already pretty rubbish-albeit free-life. Are we quite finished?" There was a long moment of drawn out silence punctuated by the crackling of the fire.

"Yes, we are finished. You may sleep."

"So glad I have your permission…" She muttered in a low, angry voice that she didn't expect him to catch.

"A novice must look to his master for permission to breathe." There was a tinge of bitterness in his otherwise emotionless voice. Astarte rolled on her belly and propped her head up on an elbow, raising an eyebrow at the man across from her.

"Your attitude implies that you would not have this be so." She spoke delicately, retaining that courtly air of careful inquiry. Altair glared at her, tossing aside the stick he'd been using to poke at the wood in the fire. _If he wasn't so childish, so reticent…he might even be attractive. How long has it been since I've seen grey eyes? No one in this country has them-no, stop that! _Astarte shook her head and spoke before she could get lost in nostalgia.

"I am no novice."

"But you were until recently." Astarte gazed into the fire, watching the tongues of flame lick the corners of the night like a dragon's tongues. "Is becoming a master Assassin a particularly difficult task?"

"Are you a healer or a poisoner?" Obviously, this question was meant to deflect her own with a jab at her own proficiency.

"That depends on the occasion and the patient in question. Goodnight, _Master _Assassin." Astarte rolled over on the horse blanket and shut her eyes.

"Have you ever killed with your poisons?" Mostly, his tone was curious. But there was something loaded in the way he had asked it. Astarte felt a chill wriggle down her spine. She briefly considered feigning sleep before giving herself an internal scolding. Chicken.

"Normally and if one is skilled in the art, fatal poisoning is not necessary."

"That does not answer the question, Templar. Have you killed?" Astarte resisted the urge to snatch up a handful of sand and throw it in his eyes.

"Yes." Astarte tried to block the unpleasant memories. With the limited resources she possessed or had been able to procure, it had never been a clean process. The human body tended to riot when under the influence of a toxic substance, spewing and gaping and gurgling and bleeding. A blade was kinder…

"Was it difficult?" Mocking, arrogant, bold. How dare he!

"No."

"You feel no guilt?"

"Regret that the death could not have been kinder, but guilt fades when your victim is far from guiltless themselves. You're not the only death-dealer wandering around with a spotless conscience." Astarte felt the buzz of adrenalin gradually leave her as the moments passed without a reply. Finally, she relaxed fully into the makeshift bedding. Verbal sparring was exhausting, and clever lies did nothing to mask bitter truths.

The rest of the night passed by in mutual silence, but it was hours before her mind was quiet enough for her to fall into a fitful sleep. She dreamt in the dull, featureless grays of Acre that at times would mingle with the yellows of sand and the deep, sweet, moist green of home. Of grassy hills and rainy glens that she would probably never see again. Of a small castle set into the land itself with mossy, ivy strewn walls and battlements that gazed over an eternity of lush field-

"Don't move." The dream instantly disappeared, so quickly Astarte mentally scrambled to reconcile herself with reality. She heard Malik's name, a few harshly barked words and then a reprimand. But the voices didn't bother her as much as the weight on her chest, like someone had casually set a coil of rope down on her. Astarte opened her eyes and stopped breathing.

"Don't move, Aisha, don't move." Hafiz soothed from somewhere behind her head.

He could have had the most calming voice in the world and she wouldn't have felt any less than utterly terrified. A red forked tongue flicked the tip of her nose as the cobra swayed backwards, bearing it's barred underbelly. Each scale glittered in the blue morning light, like a thousand ivory tiles in a long, sinuous mosaic. _White, so white…white as snow. _She'd seen her first cobra on the day she arrived in Acre and that one had been the unhealthy brackish grey-black of a plague sore. Nonetheless, it had held it's own mesmerizing beauty each time it struck at the guards who tormented it. The death a cobra delivered was swift, almost immediately after being bitten a victim perished. There was no help for it except not to be bitten in the first place.

"We should kill it." Altair spoke, his deep voice laced with revulsion. _A snake-hater._

"No! It will strike her and then all your endless hours whining about how much she slowed our pace will be for not." Malik spoke, in that jeering way that men and boys adopt to cover true anxiety.

"Good, then we'll rid ourselves of two snakes in the same knife-stroke." Astarte heard a yell, felt sand spray against her face. A twin hiss of blade and serpent, the slap of smooth, glassy snake scales against her cheek. The sound of a thump as someone fell backwards and muffled curses.

"Another move like that, Altair Ibn La-Ahad, and you'll never leave Maysaf until your dying day. Did it bite you?" Astarte tried to feel ashamed for hoping as a long length of serpent slid back and renewed swaying, it's white hood spread wide.

"It…it missed." Altair's confidence sounded shaken.

"As did you…we can only wait, now. God will decide-" A loud, threatening hiss interrupted Hafiz's speech.

Astarte's looked directly at the cobra for the first time. It's cold, black eyes gazed back as the hiss issued from between it's slender fangs. The hood stretched so wide that she could virtually see sunlight through it's ivory skin. It was going to strike her. At least a bite to the face would kill her quickly. The mouth closed, she felt it's coils tighten and shut her eyes and braced herself for the…her bottom lip tickled as a little double fork traced across it. The snakes hooded head kissed her throat like a long rope of cool steel as it slithered off of her, passing over the thundering pulse point and slipping away.

"_Maashallah_. It is as God wills it to be, Aisha." Astarte slowly sat up and eased herself off of the horse blanket, exquisitely aware of the many poisonous creatures that could be hiding in the folds of the fabric even now, only half-listening to Hafiz's astonished proclamation. Altair grabbed her under the elbows and heaved her to her feet, holding her there for the bare breadth of a second until he was certain she wouldn't tumble into the remnants of the campfire and then releasing her.

"If you're lucky, that wont be the only killer to be merciful today. Now get on the horse, _hiya-hnesh_." Altair snatched up the rug and shook it out, dislodging two large scorpions from the folds. Astarte barely stifled her yelp as she jumped back and nearly knocked Malik off his feet. Altair snarled something in Arabic at him and he winced.

"What does he mean? Hiya-?" Astarte prodded as he bound her wrists.

"It means 'she-serpent'." Malik murmured uneasily, stretching a scrap of dark fabric in his hands and holding it out towards her face. A blindfold.

"This is ridiculous." She scoffed, letting him fit the bandage over her eyes. He was gentle with it, tying it snugly but still with enough give that it would merely obscure her vision. "What did he say after that?"

"I did not spread the herb to keep the scorpions out, nor did I watch for the snake. It was my fault. That is mostly what he said." Malik added the last hastily, perhaps realizing how unwise it was to share any information with the enemy. Astarte felt him grip her gently but firmly under the elbow and steer her presumably towards the horses.

"Altair, she rides with you today." There was a long string of spitting, angry words and a grip like iron replaced Malik's on her upper arm, yanking her in the opposite direction. It was going to be another lovely day.


	8. In Which Everyone Ends Up Miserable

**Author's Note: **_Sorry guys! Been Busy! R&R! Much Love!_

"We are here. Climb off, hnesh." Altair busied himself with tying the horse to it's hitching post, disliking the feel of the English syllables on his tongue. The ride had been exhausting, but not as horrific as he had expected. The little snake had balance, but it was clear she hadn't ridden so far for many months at least.

"You should help her, Altair. Or she will fall, she is so stiff." Malik murmured from beside him, watching the templar sway dangerously and then grab the pommel to support herself. "At least remove the blindfold."

"She's fine-" He snapped, turning towards the novice with a furious expression on his face. Malik was saved from a quarrel as Hafiz and another assassin mounted the small incline. Altair's lip curled as he recognized his former rival, walking along beside Hafiz as though he owned all the holy land.

"Greetings Altair, Son of None. And to you as well, novice."

"Isam." The mutter was not as completely devoid of resentment as it could have been and the man raised an eyebrow at Altair before turning his gaze to where the woman seemed to be steeling herself to leap off the horses back.

"So this is your little souvenir from Acre? She hardly seems dangerous enough to have stormed the Bureau." Isam stroked his beard as tenderly as though it were a beloved pet. Out of the corner of his eye, Altair watched Malik and Hafiz purposely distancing themselves from the two of them; Malik bug-eyed and his Master looking grim.

"She didn't." Altair's teeth clicked as they ground together.

"Mhmm, I suppose she just batted her pretty eyelashes at you and you just couldn't refuse-"

"There were extenuating circumstances. It would have compromised the brotherhood to allow her to go free." The excuse sounded pathetic, even to his own ears.

"Ah, just as well. She is comely looking, for a Templar." Altair clenched his fist and resisted the urge to strike Isam. He was merely baiting him, the woman's face and body were hidden by the robes they'd put her in to ferry her across the kingdom.

"Aren't you worried that your pretty extenuating circumstance might ride off? She's been on that horse a long while." The man did a poor job of hiding his disappointment at Altair's lack of response.

"She's blindfolded, saddle-sore, and her wrists are bound. She's not going-" There was a loud splash and the horses shied and reared backwards as a fountain of water rose up from their trough. The woman's head broke the surface, the black silk head piece and veil sticking to her nose and mouth. She let out a cry of frustration and slithered out of the trough, coughing up founts of water.

"I see what you mean: Blindfolded. And saddle-sore." Isam seemed barely able to control his mirth as Altair stormed over to his charge and hauled her to her feet, his face colouring with embarassment and anger. She swayed like a blade of grass and would have fallen into him if he hadn't elbowed her sharply in the ribs.

"On your feet, Templar." He snapped at her, releasing her arm and taking a step forward. There was a soft thump and he turned once more, infuriated. "Get up!"

"I'm trying, Assassin. I cant see, I cant use my hands to balance and I'm stiff. I need to rest-" She did sound tired, but Altair didn't have time for a tired hostage.

"You can rest when you're dead. Rise up, Cobra-" He knelt and loosened the sodden rope around her wrists. Her shoulders relaxed slightly and he hauled her up once more on the back of her tunic.

"Perhaps you are not speaking her language, Altair. _Bonjour, ma petite fille._" Isam. The idiot. There was a moment of silence and woman turned her head towards him, the blindfold still firmly in place over her eyes. Her nose wrinkled and her lip curled.

"I'm English, you French speaking twat. Toss off!" Altair barely had time to grab her as she spat in Isam's face. His respect for the woman increased tenfold even though she hung limply from his grasp.

"How dare you-" Isam's English was heavily accented and his beard quivered with outrage. Altair recalled with a sudden fondness how this assassin who thought so much of himself had never been able to fully master the complicated English grammar and tenses.

"How dare I? How dare _you_. I don't even look French, let alone sound it-"

"_Enough_. Altair, what could possibly be taking you so long? Isam, I believe you have guard duties to attend to, do you not?" Hafiz loomed behind Isam, whose whole body went rigid with fury.

"This little-! This _woman _spit at me!"

"Even more reason for you to return to the safety of Maysaf guard post, hmm? You never know, our little _hnesh _might be poisonous…" Hafiz glowered at the young assassin until he was forced to look away. Defeated, Isam shot one more furious glance in Altair's direction and strode off. Hafiz sighed and seemed to deflate, glancing tiredly over his shoulder. "Can she walk?"

Altair removed his hand from under her shoulders and she collapsed to her knees.

"Damn it all! Stop speaking in a language I cant understand!" Hafiz reached over and pulled off the blindfold and veil. She blinked up at him even in the dim light of dusk, her dark green eyes wide. The brows may have been furrowed in frustration, but Altair was surprised to see thinly veiled fear in her expression. Maybe it was the fact that she was soaking wet and covered in dirt and straw, but he felt a twinge of guilt when she winced as he cut the ropes binding her wrists behind her back.

"Come, Aisha, we are wasting time that could be spent speaking to the Master. Only after that can you rest." Firmly but with more care then Altair, Hafiz reached under one arm and supported her weight. Malik appeared from wherever he'd been lurking and supported her other side, leaving Altair feeling useless. He glanced up at the fortress on the peak of their small mountain home and felt his chest seize with dread. Al Mualim would not be pleased.

"Altair, enter. Bring the girl."

"If you are disrespectful, little hnesh, I will leave you on a windswept crag and the eagles can have you. Do you understand?" Altair shook her upper arm for emphasis. She winced and struggled to her feet like a newborn foal, trembling with effort and fear.

"And do not run, I will just catch you." He added as an after thought, feeling the familiar thrill of frustrated resentment and reverence that always accompanied his visits to Al Mualim. The woman gritted her teeth and he felt her muscles tense slightly under his fingers.

"I'm not going anywhere-" She began, with a tone as sharp as a cobra's fangs.

"Altair!" He hauled on her arm and practically dragged her inside the room. It was arid, circular chamber with bookcases on every wall, a tall domed ceiling that had been artfully carved. The air was pleasantly cool and perfumed with frankincense. It was just familiar enough to make him nervous. He released the woman's arm like she'd burned him and resisted the urge to snort as she collapsed to the floor.

"Master," He bowed respectfully, keeping his gaze downcast. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Malik and Hafiz, the latter standing back against the wall and watching the proceedings emotionlessly. Al Mualim's steps were measured as he walked slowly from the window

"Stand with Malik, Altair. I'll deal with you later." Altair winced and stepped aside, leaving the woman sitting on the floor in a heap.

Astarte felt a slight chill run down her spine as Altair stepped aside with alarming obedience. She tried her best to look harmless as she squinted at the robed figure haloed in the brilliant sunlight. If this man had enough power to lead an entire mountain stronghold of extremely organized and efficient assassins, he was definitely a worthy adversary. She felt the almost overwhelming urge to stand up and face this threat on her feet. The more pressing thought was that she stay down, pretend a weakness she did not suffer from. Men, especially the kind she'd met in the holy land, did not like it when woman looked them in the eye. And being likable might mean a difference between life and death for her.

"Do you know why your blindfold was removed when you arrived at Maysaf, noblewoman?" The man sounded old, with a gravelly sort of growl to his speech. It was eerily familiar…

"I assumed it was so I wouldn't trip over things, but correct me if I am wrong." Not for the first time, she wanted desperately to rescind the foolishly bold statement.

"It was so that you could see. There is no escape from this place."

"I have trouble seeing why on earth you would want to keep me. I'm of no use to you and I've done your order no wrong." If I'm going to hoist myself on my own petard, I may as well do so properly. The old man stared down at her pensively. One of his eyes was filmed over and murky and it gave his gaze a menacing leer that made her insides squirm with nervous revulsion.

"Hafiz tells me you released Altair and Malik from the dungeon in Acre and fled with them. What logic dictates that you would so betray your own? Why aid an enemy?" The threat in the old mans voice was now paired with a sort of curiosity.

"I owe Robert de Sable no more allegiance than I owe you. I have no enemy but those who sought to keep me helpless and who mistook any healing not left in the hands of God as witchcraft." The man was now very close to her, looming almost.

"And you do not believe in God?"

"I…" Astarte hesitated for a millisecond to long. "I believe in God."

"Mhm, neither does Altair. But it is a rare woman indeed who faces a cobra and lives to pretend to cower in the heart of Maysaf. Surely some kind of divinity, some sort of twist in the strings of fate have brought you here before me." Al Mualim smiled, but in a way that made Astarte's empty stomach squirm. "Stand, Aisha."

"My name is…never mind." He was just going to kill her, run her through with the sword he was now unsheathing from where it lay on his writing desk. She heard Hafiz's breath catch from somewhere behind her. This was it, she shut her eyes and held her breath. A sliver of cold metal kissed her throat and she swallowed.

"Wait, Master! Surely you do not mean to kill her? We took great lengths to bring her here and she is no threat-"

"Does not the serpent seem a weak creature at first glance? But with one drop of it's poison it may kill ten men. Those who heal, may also kill. If any Templar wanted her, they would have already taken her. She is of no use." The coldness in the mans tone was almost too calculated and Astarte's heart jumped with foolish hope.

"But master-" Malik began to plead once more.

"Silence, Malik." Altair's voice, remote and emotionless. "It is as Al Mualim wills it."

Astarte almost let loose a hysterical laugh at Altair's impertinent defiance of both God and master. The old man, he must have noticed, must have recognized this jab at his decision to kill her. Astarte wanted to turn and thank Altair for that tiny gesture alone. Why wasn't she dead yet? She opened one eye to see Al Mualim preparing to swing and for the first time, she felt something other than meek submission. What was she doing? She could run! She could dodge the blow easily, why just stand her and be cut down? She hadn't let her father force her to marry Robert, she hadn't waited for the witch-hunters to come pounding on her door. She would not lay down and die, assassins or no.

The blade swung at her neck and she dropped to her knees and rammed her head into Al Mualim's stomach with all the remaining strength in her sore body. The blow should have sent him sprawling but instead he merely stumbled backwards. Driven by panicked adrenalin, Astarte twisted so that her right shoulder slammed into his ribcage and lunged for his left arm, trying to grab the sword.

"Stop!" She felt a rough yank on the back of her head and shrieked with pain, clawing at where the old mans fingers were wrapped around the sword. She brought her foot down on his own and twisted into his chest, jabbing one elbow into his stomach and latching onto his wrist with her teeth. If they were going to call her a serpent she may as well act like one. He dropped the sword and she felt something jab into her ribcage, like a tiny sting.

"AH!" She gasped and fell to her knees, scrambling crablike across the stone and grabbing for the painful point on her ribs, bringing her fingers back sticky with blood. She barely had time to register that the old man had stabbed her with a tiny stiletto when Altair landed on top of her, his hidden blade poised above her throat; his kneecaps grinding painfully into her shoulders.

"Master?" He asked through gritted teeth, tipping her head backwards by barely touching the skin of her throat with the razor sharp tip of the blade. Goddess forbid she even so much as sneeze.

"No, do not kill her. She has will yet to live. Malik, fetch a healer…if you would…" The old man collapsed into his chair, once again appearing deceptively harmless. He looked mildly amused as he beckoned Hafiz over to him and they spoke quietly to one another.

"Get off me." She coughed, gasping through the horrific feeling of recovering her breath. Altair stared at her dispassionately for a moment longer before he rocked his weight forward to his knees in an unnecessary shift that made her cry out in the pain from her still healing shoulder and stood, placing one foot on her breast bone just in case she tried to rise. As if she could bear to move at this point, everything ached with varying levels of pain.

"Ah, Malik returns. Jahed, just bandage her middle tightly for now, to stop the bleeding until a proper physic can treat her." Astarte turned her head and saw a middle aged man kneel beside her and give Altair a rather appraising look.

"Altair Ibn la'Ahad, take your foot off my patient." He declared, placing one rough hand against Altair's knee and giving it a gentle but firm push. "Malik, help me sit her up."

Astarte felt Malik grip her under the armpits and help her into a semi-recumbent position so that Jahed could wrap her middle in rough cloth so tightly she could barely stand to breathe. The only reason any level of pain went away was because she very literally could no longer feel anything but the unbearable tightness. Meanwhile, Al Mualim spoke:

"Altair."

"Yes, Master?" Altair dropped to one knee obediently, keeping his head down.

"Hafiz and I have decided the appropriate punishment for your…unorthodox situation. And, in turn, what to do with Aisha Hnesh, as she shall henceforth be called. The true test of a mans worth is his ability to not only learn, but to teach to others his craft." Al Mualim was smiling, that freakish, sly smile he used when explaining something very simple to those who should know better. Altair waited patiently for him to continue, glancing at Malik to see if the novice had any clue what the old man was trying to say. Al Mualim won the battle of patient waiting and Altair spoke:

"I have already earned my title, and Hafiz is Malik's mentor."

"I did not say you would be tutoring Malik. In fact, he shares the punishment-" it all dawned on Altair in a stunning, viscerally painful moment of horrifying realization.

"But she's a…she's a Templar!" And she's weak and a…not a ma-she wasn't born an assassin!" Malik fumbled over what he had to say, looking outraged. Astarte looked from Malik to Altair to Al Mualim and her face hardened.

"I am not a Templar. Neither am I soldier, I've never been able to wield any weapon with proficiency-"

"Master, it is impossible-" Altair began, his tone insulted and appalled at the same time. Al Mualim held up a hand and Altair and Malik clamped their mouths shut instantaneously. There would be no argument.

"Please, I'm a healer-"

"And also, by virtue of your craft, a posioner. You three can teach each other much." Al Mualim pulled a pigeon out of a small box by the window and stroked it lovingly.

"I do not possess the physical strength-"

"I am offering you your life, girl. Would you rather I challenged these two by having them put you to death?" Astarte quieted immediately, dropping her gaze and touching the wound in her side. The circumstances were impossible, she'd die in training. No one knew better than her that she lacked the skill, the dexterity and the strength. "There have been females in our order before, and there shall be again. You shall teach one another your strengths, and by God you shall humble yourselves! Out now, I have better things to do than trifle with three novices."

"Master, I-" Altair looked livid with fury and outrage.

"OUT!" Al Mualim roared in such a outward show of fury that Malik skittered out the door like a frightened alley cat. Altair retained enough pride and dignity to walk from the room. He'd just reached the threshold when Hafiz cleared his throat rather pointedly and jerked his head toward the center of the room where Astarte was clutching her side and wincing.

"_Taalee hona_! Come to heel, Novice. _Besora'a! Hurry up!" Limping heavily and bent double with pain, she exited the room ahead of him._

"_Are you certain it is wise to leave them to their own devices?" Hafiz murmured, listening to the sounds of squabbling in the corridor_

"_Altair needs the experience, perhaps it will teach him some small modicum of modesty. Malik needs to be well-free of Altair's competition if he expects to progress. The girl…fate did not bring her to us to be slaughtered. As far as whether or not it is wise, perhaps you should make sure he does not accidentally kill the little serpent. Altair is certainly capable of ending lives, whether or not he is any good at keeping others alive is less certain." Al Mualim gave a slightly gap-toothed grin and released the pigeon he'd been cradling. It flew up and out the missing window pane and into the light._


End file.
